Shoes that Fit

to graduate in my 
dream i must find
my shoes they have
already been bought
to match this fancy
dress i pull on not my unusual
style...white with
some lime green decorations
almost a work of art but it fits
finally today i found my shoes
put the final touches on my
story looked again into that
mirror and pressed print
now it sits numbered two sided
ready to be copied and sent
for last editing these shoes
are not comfortable, merely mine
somehow they match this
strange shiny new
outfit refit unfit retrofit 
fit fit.

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Full Moon Rising

i rise early
buy my grand girls
christmas gifts from
amazon when what
i miss is the real
amazon the legendary
me raised in the wonder
of Brazil a homeland lost

i read poems of Margret
Randall off her FB page
recalling that i have been
an activist i wrap make up
brushes we got free
with our face cream and i
long to walk out onto the
stage of this lost America
and cry justice kiss the face
of race no cream can charm

i see kyakers out the fourteen
story window of the condo where
we labor for our bread and bed
love the ocean setting long for
the freedom of a small life lived
large how i drove to Mexico one
year and danced with Rogoberta
Menchu and sold art made by
Latin American Indians my brothers
and sister killed on their own land
for greed and i long to walk those
paths again and speak the language
of passion into the greed of too many dollars.

I’m planning a new social enterprise you see
it talks to me gently in the night while I sleep
sometimes cries, NOW at me when i walk
the beach, reverberates in thoughts as
i take classes and connect with the young
of Latino America, so watch out Amazon
cause the real amazon is rising taking
up the bed of her discontent and leaping
for joy at the challenge of yet another
jump off the cliff of comfort into the arms
of free falling love i’ve got a misson y’all
and it ain’t gonna be silent or purty it’s
got a one breasted focus on the dreams
of tomorrow, with the bow pulled taught
right this minute the target is no bull’s
eye it’s the longings of a thousand generations
crying freedom and waiting to be born from the
womb of all that we are and have and love to give

Some Things Unburied by the Isla Vista Massacre

I spent several years
Working in the battered women’s movement
From which I was rejected by some of the women
I worked with because I was hired to deal with the men
Who abuse. I think blame is the issue. If I speak of
Our culture as violent to women, someone will want to rape me.

If I say lets deal with the sickness culturally and individually the
Disease that causes fear and rape and murder say nothing
Of the endless lives of desperation that some women lead
Or the fear that I carry of walking alone even in “good”
Neighborhoods especially after dark,
In terms of healing not of blame then I will no
Longer be a sister, not belong to the women
I am so old that I have been through the woman’s
Movement of the sixties and seventies,
I have counseled endless women on how
To survive or get help or heal from being raped as children
Taught men in prison how to survive being raped by their mothers and fathers

My own life has the usual scars of nothing more
Than having been born female into an era and culture
Of male privilege and entitlement and yet I have the
Courage to want to go beyond all blame
To want to find the place of redemption
To slam, destroy and maim the powers that
Create wars, imprisonment of people of color
Especially men I want to forgive, move on recreate
The world so that my grand daughters will
Walk in beauty instead of fear and my
Grandsons will be free from the terror
And sickness of not making it, not measuring up
Not being able to cry or be tender.

We are so wasted by the media that wants
Us to speculate and blame, so distracted
From our power to love this culture right now
Into a place that has no need for war, or guns or rape.
Killing is murder and war is rape just as love requires
Infinite courage and energy in a world that knows only war.

Easter Morning Maine, 1954

wee hours of the morning we hike to
top of the nearby hill, the women
in curlers, men unshaved I’m six and in
pj’s rowdy and happy to be out
in the chill of pre-dawn
walking up the dirt road past
the cemetery where our ancestors sleep waiting

the trumpet playing, “HE AROSE,”
clear and breaking the silence
my father giving for once a very
short speech, each of us in awe
of the breaking of that grip that
death had, a rising from the grave
crawling over our skin waking up the senses
wiping away the tears of sorrow and injustice

poor Mainers sing Up from the Grave,
looking for comfort and a way to make it
laughing on the way back to the church
kitchen where for once the men did
the cooking, an abundance of biscuits
scrambled eggs, bacon and gratitude
simple this faith with eyes open beyond the grave.

Today

my son Scott

new pilot

is flying home

alone today

Peter son # one

carried his daughter

home last night

back from the hospital

crying

om om om

 

I took this memoir

from the ageing

computer to the page

began pulling its

bony structure

out of the hat that

sat on the head of

all  i know singing

om om om

 

all this when darkness

is upon this sweet earth

when each year we spend

spend spend trying

to find a way to end the sorrow

that comes up from the deep

yet our ancestors have gone dark with

the companionship of a thousand

candles for hundreds of years

wildly bright on the shortest night

shinning

om om om

 

Showing ourselves

who we really are

how far from home

our fake lives take us

no, as close as our own

skin this home we look

for illuminated by the

very dark, this light

sometimes comes with tears

dropping

om om om

 

Christmas 2013

new life wears thin

flapping in the winter wind

Christmas imposes a guilty laden

depression fueled by Wall Street’s

pic pocketing mad fingers grasping

before we recoil into our end of the year debt

 

burden of a happy face heavy

load we give our children

chaining their innocence to values we despise

self-centered greed creates a hungry

world a fake replica a tribute to empty nothingness

Mystic Mountain Spiral Galaxy from Hubble

 

this recipe is concocted with counterfeit spices

like Gimme and Mine yet the smell of it hints

at the deep reality it seeks to cover up

like Santa arriving through the night sky

a vision of love so whole it cradle rocks

this Universe swinging to the tune of the

Symphony played by planets and stars

 

take up your bow, gather the drum beats

of the heart of God let our swirling skits

remember who we are in the dance

pieces of Heaven and Earth bound by the One source of light.